Back to School
by Capt-Facepalm
Summary: September brings new beginnings. Dedicated to all those returning to school, whether as students, as teachers, or wa-nots.


University of London  
>Thursday August 30, 1906 <p>

The lecture theatre was hot and stuffy on this unseasonably warm late August afternoon.

The orientation session droned on and on. Following the order of the long list of names written on the chalkboard, professors, lecturers, and other instructors each took their turn introducing themselves and their subjects to their sweaty, fidgety first-year audience.

Alexander (Sandy) Macklin hated London. He shouldn't be here, he thought. He should be out on his little boat off the Isles of Scilly on a day like today. Or helping his village's fishermen unload their daily catch. Or even just walking the strand near his home; somewhere, anywhere, under the open skies.

But here he was. Stuck inside this hall with a hundred of his peers; his only reprieve was that he sat in the last row, in the seat closest to the exit. The seventeen year-old had made a deal with his father, the village doctor. He would endure one year of school in London, and if he still hated it, he could leave and would be allowed to join the Royal Navy. Formal classes had not even begun and he hated school already. It was going to be a long year.

In the morning session, he dutifully wrote down the names of each of the Masters and diligently took notation of the highlights of their brief talks. But now, in the afternoon session, Sandy only noted their names and doodled caricatures and other marginalia.

Sandy drew a sailing ship and was wistfully wondering about his chances for being press-ganged into service on a vessel bound for somewhere, anywhere, when the lecture hall door creaked noisily to admit a latecomer. The old goat at the podium glared at the interruption before continuing. A middle-aged man entered and gave an apologetic nod to the speaker, before searching out a seat.

"Please move over," he implored in a whisper. Sandy, with an inward sigh, gave up his precious aisle seat reluctantly knowing he was now trapped. The latecomer was too old to be a student and too young to be a teaching master. A father of one of the students, perhaps. Sandy dismissed him without a second thought.

The bleating of the old master at the podium dragged on and on. Sandy's latest caricature caught the attention of his new neighbour, who smirked and gestured for the notebook and the pencil. Reluctantly Sandy slid the items over. A few moments later he received them back; the caricature now sporting an impressive brace of curly goat horns. He stared at the man who was, for all intents and purposes, fully engaged in listening to the speaker.

Sandy quickly sketched the Headmaster and slid it over. The man glanced at the drawing and quickly added more folds to the long-flowing robe, two stone tablets, and sandals of Old Testament proportions, before handing it back. Sandy stifled a laugh and drew another one.

This exchange continued between the two and soon Sandy's pages were filled with doodles and lampoons ranging from the Classics Master dressed in a toga, mounting the steps to the Senate on the Ides of March, to the Astronomy Master howling at the full moon, to the College Chaplain being boiled up for a cannibal feast. Pirates forced rugby players to walk the plank. A violin virtuoso played on, oblivious to his cringing audience. London Bobbies chased a cat. Opera attendees wore flowerpots instead of top hats and bonnets. The silliness lasted until nearly all the speakers were finished.

"I have to go now," Sandy's fellow collaborator said, returning the writing implements, and making his way down the stairs to front of the class. Sandy's eyes followed in disbelief as his new friend mounted the podium.

"Good afternoon," he said. "I'm Doctor John Watson, and for those of you who have declared for medicine, you have my condolences as I will be your Lecturer in Ethics on Tuesday mornings. I can see by the time that these sessions have gone on long enough for today and as your last speaker, I will keep this brief. For those of you in my class, we start at nine o'clock, sharp. For the rest of you, I wish you all a successful year."

As the students began shuffling in their seats to leave, Sandy looked down at the last cartoon drawn by Doctor Watson.

It was a caricature of a student; astonished eyes and slack-jawed in amazement.

Sandy laughed aloud. School might not be so bad after all. At least, Tuesdays held some promise!

* * *

><p><strong>Footnotes:<strong>

Good luck to everyone returning to school!  
>Have an inspired semester!<p>

Capt_Facepalm


End file.
